Today's thoughts

Category: Frankie the Cat (Page 4 of 4)

Our Burmese kitty

Creature Features: Bone Wars (Part 1) #370

My wife’s youngest daughter came to visit last night for the week. The dogs got to meet her at the airport after a long flight from her home in Washington D.C. She once lived with us in Decatur, Illinois, finishing up some undergraduate courses to enroll in Medical school. It was there that she met Tinker, our rescue schnauzer, and a connection was instantly sparked. Tinker had been abandoned as a pup and survived on her own until we found her at the Macon County Animal Shelter. At that time, she was in a cage still caked with mud, and my wife thought she was brown in color. However, once she had a bath, we were both surprised that she was a lighter shade of gray, but it was the eyes that caused my wife to fall in love. That was nearly twelve years ago.

We named her Tinker because we already had a Chow-pherd named Belle, and together they were Disneyesque. Belle was the mature, good dog, while Tinker ruined most of the carpeting in our home and was untrustworthy off the leash. We lived on a lake and she would frequently escape, frantically chase the ducks, and return covered in the same coat of mud that we first saw her wear. As a schnauzer mixed with what we believe is poodle (schnoodle), she was not fond of water, high strung, and barked at everything, yet was very intelligent. She had a big vocabulary and even learned to spell, after we refrained from using words that she recognized and spelled them out instead. Tinker was always full of energy and kept Belle young at heart. It was about ten years ago that Belle passed away, leaving my wife and her two daughters without their best friend.

While the older daughter was getting her Masters, the younger one was befriending Tinker in Decatur. We also had two cats at that time, so I ranked at least sixth on my wife’s list of favorites. With the loss of Belle, I had temporarily moved up on her “living list,” and was still trying to gain favoritism by pretending to love animals. Belle had grown to tolerate me, but was still reluctant to go on walks without the company of her owner. My wife and I had also jointly purchased a Burmese cat named Frankie, so I was slowly involved in building a personal family of pets, and would eventually over time grow to love them all. In fact, as a recent retiree, I’ve taken on most of the pet responsibilities, and will even cook some rice later today to help feed our four-legged family. I do much of the walking, feeding, and litter-box duties, but still leave the nurturing to my wife.

While we lived in Decatur, my wife’s youngest took on most of the pet responsibilities. I rarely saw Tinker, who had gladly moved into “Her Girl’s” room, along with Frankie the cat. When Tinker’s girl was at work, I would occasionally have to take her out to do her business, if she didn’t just do it on the carpet. I remember what I called “Tinkerrhea” that left a permanent brown reminder on our white dining room carpet, and a similar incident in the car that left me covered in doggie doo-doo. I was driving and she suddenly leaped off my wife’s lap to sit on mine, so there was little I could do to protect myself. Fortunately, we were traveling, so I had a change of clothes handy. I’m sure you’re all familiar with Montezuma’s revenge – this was Tinker’s! I also fondly recall a window I had to replace at our lake home, as Tinker and her girl were playing fetch. I still don’t exactly know how the window got broken, but the two of them spent many hours playing ball in the hallway. They were inseparable for that special year. It was also good for my wife, who never liked living there, to have the two of them in the house together. I was there, too, I need to mention.

Tinker is getting old and has grown to be the mature leader to her younger sister Tally, that Belle once was to her. Tally is now the high strung schnauzer of the family that likes to chew the limbs off stuffed animals. At least, she’s learned to confine her biting to these disposable creatures rather than the shoes, clothing, and furniture that she used to destroy with her teeth. Tinker still has an incessant, annoying bark that she uses to greet us, or as a mournful reminder that we are leaving her behind. I refer to Tinker and Tally as T-N-T because they can get into explosive arguments over toys and bones. “Bone Wars” happen often, as each becomes extremely possessive about their treats, toys, ball, rawhide chews, and pork chomps. Tally also likes to growl at passers-by, while Tinker is currently barking because “Her Girl” who came to visit is suddenly missing again. Apparently, she missed the fact that my wife’s daughter left to go for a run and couldn’t be found anywhere in the house. Tinker spent last night cuddling with her in bed, but often has to be assisted in making the jump up and down. As she sadly discovered, the bed was now empty, but she had somehow gotten up to double-check and couldn’t get back down, frantically barking for help. Tinker will be so sad when her best buddy goes back home later this week, even though the older sister will replace her in that bed, while my wife and I head back to Indiana for Christmas.

We all saw Star Wars this past week, but ‘Bone Wars” is by far my favorite. Each pet fights for our attention and fights with each other, as siblings often do. We try to share our affection and food equally, but violent wars break out, even when we’re gone. The other night we came home to an expensive broken vase in pieces on the floor, assuming that Tally had chased Frankie, as often happens, and in an effort to avoid confrontation the vase got in the way. Tally just wants to play, but Frankie sees it as a threat, just as older sister’s kitties reacted to her aggressive presence. Tally is a playful seven year old that has taken on the energy that Tinker once had. She leads the way on our weekend walks, tugging on her leash to go faster, while Tinker often lags behind. The “Tally Monster” is always the first one in the door after an outing, hoping to take possession of both chewy bones. Tinker will “bark-bark-bark” in retaliation until we intercede to return her stolen property. If Tinker happens to get hold of Tally’s bone, she will quickly gobble it down so there’s no chance for recovery. Tinker will also shamelessly eat out of her sister’s bowl, who often waits to see if we’re cooking something better. Hesitation loses wars, and when it comes to food Tinker always gets her way.

I’m sure it’s very complicated for Tinker and Tally, and even Frankie, as people come and go from their lives. The older daughter moved in with us in Austin, Texas, where we adopted Tally. She was working on her doctorate and needed to save some money. Tally naturally has bonded more with her, while Tinker had already found her favorite sister. The older sister moved with us to Portland, but now lives in a separate apartment with her two kitties. Tally always seemed to frighten the kitties, while they lived with us, so her bond with the older sister is somewhat restrained by the meanness to her furry babies. However, she comes over often to visit and will stay here whenever possible as we travel. All the pets are excited to see her, but Tinker gets especially excited when the younger sister, her best pal, comes to town. That day is here!

Montezuma (Tinkerrhea)

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We were in the car,

On the road.

Far away,

From our abode.

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Our little dog,

On my wife’s lap.

Calmly taking,

A little nap.

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All of a sudden,

“Tinker” had to go.

Signs of panic,

Began to show.

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She jumped over,

On top of me.

I’m driving the car,

My hands weren’t free.

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Before there was time,

To safely stop.

I quickly realized,

She was ready to pop.

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It was Tinkerreah,

That came gushing out.

The smell soon left,

Little doubt.

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Accidental?

Or revenge?

Like Montezuma,

I had to cringe.

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She had the runs,

And ran to me.

Just how lucky,

Can a dog owner be?

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 Copyright 2017 johnstonwrites.com

Retirement is not without Hassles: Sleep #352

There was a song on the radio this morning by Morrissey called, “Spent The Day in Bed,” that made me smile. I had just finished my morning run on another dismal, gray day, and thought about that special place that’s hard to get out of each day. It’s not so much that I don’t want to face the day; it’s the warmth and comfort of being there. I thought that by the time I got to be 66 years old that I’d surely be an early riser. Instead, I truly could spend the whole day in bed.

When I was a teenager, noon was too early to get up, and it wasn’t because I was out late. I enjoyed waking up and knowing that I had an extra hour or more to sleep. I’ve tried to rationalize that how much sleep you get doesn’t matter; eight hours can go by just as quickly as one hour. What would irritate most people, by waking up every couple of hours, is actually uplifting for me, since I have little trouble getting back to sleep. Every time I wake up and look at the clock, I find comfort in knowing that I have at least another hour to sleep. I realize that it’s a head game and that longer periods of sleep are certainly more beneficial, but it works for me.

Getting out of bed is always tough, whether it’s after a long night’s sleep or simply a short nap, but getting back in is the reward. One of the great benefits of retirement, is not having to set an alarm. However, my wife is still working, so out of respect, I set a vibrating alarm on my Apple Watch for 6 a.m. each weekday, so I can run while she gets ready for work. In my working days, when the bedside alarm went off in the morning, I would never hit the “sleep” switch, since it would only prolong the agony of getting out of bed. I had already been up several times during the night, and experienced the pleasure of getting back under the warm covers and  surrounding myself with soft pillows. Instead, I would “trick” my mind into knowing that in “just a few hours” I would quickly return after earning the right to dream again. Immediately, Frankie our cat then claims my spot on the bed, keeping it warm until my return.

I feel guilty now if I sleep past 7:30 a.m., because the dogs need to go outside to do their business. Fortunately, they are both good sleepers and able to manage their bladders for at least eight hours. I wish I had that kind of bladder control, but old age means prostrate issues, and I get up at least four times every night. To me, that equates to four opportunities to go back to sleep, and that makes me happy. It’s certainly better than “getting madder over an angry bladder.” The more Diet Coke I drink to keep me from napping in the afternoon, the more trips to the bathroom I make each night. The solution is simple: stay away from caffeine and sleep longer.  Yet, I’m sure I’ll have a Diet Coke after today’s noon leadership meeting. Buffalo Wild Wings does not serve Coca-Cola products, so I’ll drink Coors Light. The beer will make me sleepy and the Diet Coke will counter the effects, yet more liquids in leads to more liquids out.

The gist of the Morrissey song is that spending the day in bed is the best way to ignore all the bad news in the world. As a result, he’s “very happy he did.” To me, sleep is not avoidance or laziness, but rather “sweet dreams.” Plus, there’s other enjoyable things you can do in bed other than just sleep, if you know what I mean? I don’t have a “Sleep Number,” but I know that the “number” of times that I get up, knowing that I can go back to sleep, is all that matters.

 

 

Creature Features: Revenge #312

Frankie is the name of our female cat that we bought together just before we got married.  She was the first pet that I ever had an investment in owning. She’s a beautiful, white-haired Burmese with bright blue eyes – hence the “Old Blue Eyes” moniker. Frankie is “Sweet Sixteen,” but has found some “Evil Ways.” Whenever we travel, we always hire someone to stay with her and the dogs, and when we return, revenge seems to be on her mind.

She’s been especially bad this past week, and we’re hoping that it’s not a kidney condition. When I got up the other morning, she promptly peed on the sheets. We then scrambled to get all the bed covers in the washer and treated the mattress. She also left a turd in my wife’s bathtub to let us know that it wasn’t just me she was after. However, the next day, she went into my office and peed on the chair. Once again, it was Spot Shot to the rescue.  I can deal with her hair-balls, and an occasional dried turd that gets matted in her hair, but revengeful urine stains are not acceptable. Bad Kitty!

I took Frankie to the Vet yesterday. Hopefully, she doesn’t think that it was revenge on my part and cause for further retaliation on her part. She’s a fluffy twenty-five pounds, barely fits in her kitty carrier, and cries non-stop whenever she’s trapped in there, including some lengthy cross-country moves. Frankie has now lived in Indiana, Illinois, Texas, and Oregon, so she’s well traveled but clearly upset when she’s on the go. You would hardly know that she’s around most days, hidden comfortably under our bed, but becomes quite vocal, like clockwork, when it’s feeding time.

Our “Fat Cat” has earned the respect of our similar-sized dogs, even though Tally still tries to taunt her. Frankie has a pretty good right-cross punch, and bats our dogs away with ease. She’s very comfortable with Tinker, but initially joined our household with only one bigger dog named Belle and several other kitties that she has since outlived. Frankie no longer is part of a kitty committee, and now a solo act, but managed to tolerate two cousin kitties that stayed with us for awhile.

We’ve been racking up some Vet bills of late. Tinker alone takes two liquid doses of antibiotics, two tablets for allergies, an eye salve, and bacteria swabs daily, not to mention a monthly heartworm preventative. It’s a good thing that Tinker isn’t revengeful, especially after several weeks of trying to cram tablets down her throat that she would somehow hide and spit out later.  We eventually paid to have these pills liquefied, so they were more tolerable to ingest.  I made the mistake of trying to hide them in her food, and now she won’t eat without carefully inspecting each kibble to make sure it’s not a disguised bitter pill.  Needless to say, I’ve made too many trips to the Vets and our credit card is getting worn out.  Tally usually goes along for the ride, but so far she’s remained healthy, happy, and drug free.  Tally runs and hides when it’s time for her heartworm medication and fights to keep it out of her mouth.  As the low-cost pet, she’s now the “Good Dog.”

We have a bedtime tradition called “Ham Time,” although it’s really healthier turkey that we now feed them.  It accelerates the last outing for the dogs each night in anticipation of their special nightcap.  They do their business outside quickly and then stand by the refrigerator, waiting for their meat treat.  Frankie is also impatiently pacing as I bring the pups in from their final walk of the day, waiting for her portion of turkey goodness.  You would think it’s Thanksgiving every night at our house – if only the pills went down as easy.

Extra loads of wash, dry cleaning bills, grooming, stain remover, walks, trips to the Vets, medication, turkey slices, chews, treats, doggy bags, kitty litter, and food are the price we pay for our pets.  However, even though I complain about it, these pets are well worth it.  They are now my only co-workers, and retirement life would be lonely without them.  The get all excited when they hear my wife’s car coming up the driveway, and sit by the garage door anxiously waiting to see her.  I’m happy to see her, too, although not always as expressive as they are.

Creature Features: “Cat”itude Post #182

When my wife comes home from work, the dogs start to whimper as soon as they hear her car come down the street.  They’re running in circles as they hear the garage door open and try to muscle each other out of the way to get to her first as she enters the house.  What a warm reception!  On the other hand, Frankie the cat simply comes out of hiding and begins to incessantly “meow” until she gets her food.  That’s the difference between cats and dogs.  It inspired me to write this poem:

Cat Nip

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You would think,

With all we do.

That we would get, 

A small thank you.

.

Give you a home,

Two meals a day.

Brush your fur,

And let you lay.

.

Show you love,

Toys to play.

Keep the dogs,

Out of your way.

.

Feed you treats,

And treat you right.

Scratch your ears,

And hold you tight.

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After all we do,

I would conclude.

You seem to have,

An attitude.

.

Like you expect,

Us to bow.

And your meow,

Sounds like now.

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Lucky to have me,

Is what you think.

Like your litter,

Doesn’t stink.

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You strut away.

And raise your tail.

Show us your butt,

As if we fail.

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Cats are snobs,

Ours no exception.

As we come home,

To a cool reception.

.

You’d think we’d get,

Your gratitude.

But all you show, 

Is “Cat”itude!

.

Copyright 2017

johnstonwrites.com

 

Retirement is not without Hassles: Another Day in a Routine Life #179

I’ve settled back into my routine the last couple of days, as have the dogs.  Tinker was napping on the rug in the warm sunlight off the back deck, while Tally was asleep on the couch, content in the cool shade.  They are resting up from a busy day at the dog spa, sporting their stylish haircuts.  Tally played hard with the other dogs, while Tinker showed little interest in interaction.  Two very different dogs that are now my 8 to 5 co-workers, along with Frankie the cat that prefers the darkness of the bedroom.   I wonder if they know that it’s “Date Night” day.

While the dogs were getting groomed, my wife had some serious dental work yesterday, so we will dine-in tonight.  It will make the pups happy to have our company on a night that we’re typically out on the town.  I prepared a corn and tomato salsa to be served over a grilled flank steak.  I also joined my wife for a light lunch today at the Cornell Cafe Oaks located near her office.  I broke the news to her that we would be baby-sitting my grand kids our first night in San Francisco in a couple of weeks.  She was expecting something more romantic, but we settled on a Mary Poppins sing-along to keep her and them entertained.  I’m just glad to have some one-on-one time with them next month.  My son tends to be a bit possessive of his kids, but he’s also a good father.

I’ve been slowly increasing my mileage and speed in anticipation of the Hood to Coast relay.  I’m a potential last minute substitute on a team of 12 that will race 199 miles from Timberline Lodge on Mount Hood to the Seaside, Oregon beach.  Each team member will run about 17 miles over the course of two days.  Since it ends the day before my 66th birthday, I will most likely get to run a portion of the relay, as several of the regulars are nursing injuries.  It will be something to cross off my bucket list. Today was my 3,125th consecutive day (8.556 years) of running at least one mile a day.  I’ve easily averaged 2.5 miles a day over this time frame, with my current daily mileage exceeding 3.25.  In total, I’ve “easily” run over 7,800 miles since I started my present streak, more than enough to get to New York City and back.  As part of preparation for this relay, I’ve concentrated on steeper inclines the past few weeks, as the Hood to Coast route will be extremely hilly.

There was an abundance of good sports on TV this morning.  The Cubs won their 6th straight, a first for this season, and the first time since 1935 that the team has won six consecutive games following the All Star break.  The 1935 team fell short, losing to the Detroit Tigers in the World Series, but managed to win a hundred games, a Cubs feat that wasn’t accomplished again until last year – 81 years later.  They also achieved a 21-game winning streak late in the 1935 season to clinch the pennant, tying the franchise record set in 1880 when they were the Chicago White Stockings.  This year’s team will need a similar run to return to the World Series.   Later in the day, I also watched the debut of Chicago White Sox prospect, Yoan Moncada.  (Post #157).  I participated in a charity drawing in a recent visit to Guaranteed Rate Stadium in Chicago, formerly Comiskey Park, and received an autographed baseball from this Cuban phenom.  I’ve been following his progress in the Minor Leagues, anxious for him to get the promotion that happened yesterday.   He wears #10 – the same number as my White Sox childhood hero, Sherm Lollar.  It seemed almost prophetic that I randomly selected his baseball from a “mystery” stack of current and prospective players.

I also watched the Tour de France this morning, reminding me of my high school and college days on a bicycle.  My friends and I would do 50 and 100 mile rides on our non-geared bicycles, navigating a very flat Indiana terrain.  It was Stage 17 of the Tour today, and the route was through the scenic Alps.  It was mesmerizing to watch them cruise at 60 miles an hour along narrow, winding mountain roads.  I held my breath in anticipation of a life-threatening accident over the steep drop.  We didn’t have those bicycling concerns back in Indiana.  The truly painful part was watching them ascend to the peak, knowing the muscle strain and conditioning necessary to get there.

After these summer bike marathons, thee next stage of my bicycling career came entirely by accident.    Before the movie Breaking Away, the Little 500 at Indiana University got limited attention.  I had never heard of the event when I transferred to Indiana in 1971.  It was my only connection with the fraternity, since I had pledged at another college, and saw this as an opportunity to make some new friendships.  A two-week trip to Florida to train sealed the deal, but I had no idea what I was getting into.  It’s now the largest collegiate intramural sporting event, and part of the “World’s Greatest College Weekend.”  It’s been going on for 66 years, with the women’s race celebrating 29 years.  The event started the year I was born, and was founded by the son of an Indianapolis 500 winner, hence many of the similarities, including 33 four-person teams and 500 laps.  The race was originally run on a cinder track, and I have the scars to prove it.  The fact that there were no gears to shift made it a grueling experience that led to embarrassing hemorrhoids instead of the winner’s circle.

I’m no longer an athlete and don’t even own a bicycle.  I’m just a retired guy who has faint aspirations of running another marathon, contributing to the Hood to Coast relay team, hitting a home run, and maybe even winning a bicycle race.  I now live vicariously through the accomplishments of others in the sporting world, imagining that I was better at sports than I actually was.  As they say, “the older you get – the better you were.”   Sherm Lollar #10 will forever be my baseball hero and Lance Armstrong once dominated my cycling dreams, but turned out to be a grave disappointment.   I was reminded of this poem, although it’s a repeat from Post #120.   Even though tomorrow’s another day of my routine life, I don’t want to relive any portion of it.  I’m truly satisfied with what I’ve accomplished and content in simply watching the Super Hero of tomorrow take shape.  Right…Yoan Moncada?

Super Hero

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The older you get,

The faster time goes.

Anyone who’s been there,

And done that…knows.

.

Many a decision,

Is made on the spot.

You just have to know,

When to take your shot.

.

Don’t hesitate,

Bask in the sun.

Take it in now,

Have some fun.

.

From the moment you’re born,

Until your last day.

Don’t let “I can’t,”

Get in your way.

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Time will fly by,

Middle age will pass.

Make some memories,

Get off your ass.

.

Cause when you get older,

You’ll start to reminisce.

And you’ll be sorry,

For chances you miss.

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Just go out and do it,

Grab the brass ring.

Then you’ll never regret,

Having missed a thing.

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Sometimes success,

But often you’ll fail.

And you’ll try to recall,

Every detail.

.

But if you miss out,

It won’t really matter.

Your memory fades,

As you grow fatter.

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The older you get,

The better you were.

Your flaws from the past,

Become a big blur.

.

You were faster,

Sexier and stronger.

So Much Braver,

And lasted longer.

.

A Bronze God

Our Super Hero.

When you really,

Were a big ZERO.

.

So you stretch the truth,

Exaggerate a bit.

When you struck out,

It’s now a hit.

.

The older you get,

The better you were.

You were the best,

You remember for sure.

.

You made more money,

Drove fancier cars.

Where there was darkness,

You now see stars.

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You’ve seen the sights,

Even if not.

You don’t know it all,

But you know a lot.

.

The older you get,

The better you were.

Did it happen like that?

You’re really not sure.

.

And that’s the beauty,

Of growing old.

No one can counter,

White lies that you’ve told.

,

Copyright May 2015 johnstonwrites.com

Retirement is not without Hassles: Fathers #143

Today is Father’s Day, but like most days in retirement, just another glorious day.  I’m a father, step-father, grandfather, godfather, grand-godfather, father-in-law, father of the groom, pledge father, and fur father.  Hopefully, I’ve also been a father-figure to some and father-like to others.  I’ve had two fathers, one of which I never knew, two grandfathers, who I knew well, and two other grandfathers that may never have known that I ever existed.   My biological father was a putative father, and my adoptive father should have been awarded father of the year.  I’ve also had two fathers-in-law, but lost one in a divorce and the other to cancer.  I’ve been called both “father” and “dad,” but never “daddy,” “dada,” “pops,” or “papa,” like my friend-fathers are sometimes fondly addressed.

I’m pleased to admit that my son is a better father than I remember ever being.  I was far too absorbed in my career, as was my father.  I only knew the traditional male role, and accepted those narrow responsibilities.  Being only 22 years old, I was also never prepared to be a father, but have never regretted being one.  My son’s marriage made me both father of the groom and a father-in-law to his wife, giving me that second chance at fatherhood through grandchildren.  However, I’ve always lived too far away to take advantage.  Plus, I’m not always comfortable around children, and often find them annoying, especially on airplanes and at restaurants.  The older they get, the more I can relate, so I keep my distance and try to spoil them with Disney vacations and gifts.

For me, sports have always been the primary communication link between father and son.  It’s where most conversations started with my father, and continues to be the case with my son.  We go to sporting events together, and try to take the grand kids whenever possible.   I often show my love by writing checks; more learned behavior.   We are in the habit of saying “Love You” at the end of our conversations, something that only occurred in later years of my dad’s life.  At one point, I remember plotting a way to tell him how I felt, worried that he would go to the grave without hearing those words.

I got off to a bad start with my first father-in-law, concerned that he was not being truthful on an insurance payment due to my wife-to-be.   It was a misunderstanding that we eventually worked out.  The marriage didn’t!   When it came time to marry again, I properly asked her father’s permission for her hand.  It was a moment I will never forget, as pancreatic cancer took his life before I really got to share more time with him.   The second marriage was the first step in becoming a stepfather to two daughters.  I do feel that word “stepfather” has some negative connotations.  It’s not a very lovable word, so I try to avoid being one.

Tinker, Tally, and Frankie are my current furry children, although my fur-father responsibilities date back to just after college.  (see post #133). In college, while involved with the Sigma Chi Fraternity, I was a pledge father.  My “son” was blackballed from joining the house just after I transferred to another school.  He’s now the CEO of a major corporation, so I was glad to see he nicely rebounded from this Freshman set-back.  I was also honored to be the godfather to a college friend’s daughter, and I guess that makes me a grand-godfather after the birth of her son.  It only seemed logical that I should stuff cotton balls in my mouth and talk like Marlon Brando in this role.

For those into the Bible, Matthew 23:9 reads, “Call no man your father on earth, for you have one Father, who is in heaven.”  Father is a title of religious superiority, and the basis for the Catholic hierarchy.  Forgive me, Father, but who’s your daddy?  Who’s Father Time’s father?  He invented the clock, right?”  Consider this fine definition of a father by an author unknown:  “A father is neither an anchor to hold us back nor a sail to take us there, but a guiding light whose love shows us the way.”  Or, another uncredited favorite:  “A father is someone you look up to no matter how tall you grow.”

I would not be writing this if it weren’t for my biological father.  I don’t know the circumstances of why he never took responsibility for me, or if he honestly ever knew about me, for that matter.  He was a Marine, but not much of a father.  I was adopted in the first few month of my life, and given everything I possibly wanted.  It takes a special man to raise someone else’s son, and I’m proud to call him Dad. (see post #104)

Happy Father’s Day!

Retirement is not without Hassles: What’s with that Name? Part 1 #136

A name is how we are known, addressed, or referred to in life.  I seem to have some unparalleled experience when it comes to names.  In fact, I was born with a different name than what I grew up with, have had my name changed, altered and misspelled, have been labeled with a nickname, and have given my name to others.  I’ve also named several businesses, animals, and children, and been called a few names in the process.  As a result, I tend to be very sensitive when it comes to the precious brand that each of us possesses through our name.

I was born Jerry Lee Bannister by a mother I never knew.  The adoption agency called me “Mickey,” maybe because of my big ears.  Correspondence to my prospective parents stated “your Mickey is quite a boy,”  but my parents fortunately put a stop to that.  My legal name for life then became Michael Lee Johnston, however my friends called me, “Smiley.”

When I got in the business world, I began to emphasize that my last name was “Johnston with a T,” since it was often mistaken as simply Johnson.  Fortunately, very few misspelled the name “Mike,” whereas “Michael” could get some vowels reversed on occasion.   For many years, I let these misspellings go unchallenged, but soon realized the importance of protecting my brand.  This became particularly significant in the age of e-mail, since misspelling meant non-delivery.  I am very specific with the “T,” and my wife has become equally emphatic.

Wives are typically quite familiar with name changes, since this hassle many times accompanies the marriage licensing process.  Some women maintain their maiden names, while others use hyphenated versions.  My wife, for example, changed her legal name to Johnston, but maintains her maiden name for business purposes.  It gets a bit confusing at times, but she established brand recognition for her maiden name in business long before she met me, although she also used a hyphenated version in her previous marriage.  Name changes through marriages are a sign of the times.

I suppose I could have been Mickey Bannister-Johnston, Jerry Lee Johnston, Michael Bannister, or Mike Johnston, instead the nickname “Smiley” eventually prevailed over all other options.  I did have a wide smile and a big mouth growing up, so it was probably an appropriate label to give me.  It started at a week-long camp that I attended in Junior High School.  I didn’t like the name, “Smiley,” and couldn’t wait for camp to end so I could get my identity back.  However, it caught on and spread through the school like wild fire.  I fought it all through high school.  It wasn’t that it was a bad name; it just wasn’t my name.

I definitely had an identity crisis throughout High School, and hated to use the phone where you always needed to identify yourself.  If I said it was “Mike” or “Michael,” they didn’t know who was calling, and I refused to call myself “Smiley.”  This was particularly problematic when it came time for a prom date.  We would all gather at a classmate’s house and try to muster confidence to make that critical call, with the guidance and support of close friends.  I hid in the corners, or pretended to make calls, and would finally have to make the “ask” face-to-face at school.  I honestly think this aversion to the phone eventually affected my ability to make cold-calls in business, and my reluctance to participate in group call-outs.  I learned to hate the phone!  With today’s technology, we finally have Caller ID, so I no longer have to fumble through an explanation on who is calling.

“Smiley” no longer exists, and “Jerry Bannister” is my second Facebook identity.  I used my birth name in an attempt to make connections with the Bannister family name.  This came about as part of my efforts to learn the identity and whereabouts of my birth mother.  I had to rely on the help of a few close friends to get me started with this page, but now I have hundreds of Bannister, Banister, Bannistor,  and even Bannester friends on Facebook.  Unfortunately, I have not been able to find a connection with my birthmother, Edna Faye Bannister, presumably of Rome, Georgia. (See post #104:  Dual Identity).  I do, however, wish Jerry Bannister a happy birthday every year on Facebook.  I hardly ever forget since it’s the same day as mine!

Giving another a name is a privilege and happens only rarely in life.  It usually starts with a pet.  For example, I was able to name my dog “Smiley,” hoping that it would become his brand rather than mine.  I also helped in the naming of Tinker and Tally, our two schnauzers.  (See post #133:  Puppy Love).  I have yet to name a cat, and the names I came up with for a white mouse, a chameleon, some fish, and a few turtles have escaped me.  I’m sure they were clever!  I also helped name my son, Adam.  He was named after the actor Pernell Roberts, who played Adam Cartwright in the T.V. series, Bonanza.  I also gave my son Adam his middle-name of Michael.  This happened, as I recall, on the way to the hospital.  We had pretty much decided on the name Lee, since it also was the middle name of both my father and I.  Apparently, ego got in the way, so he’s Adam Michael Johnston, my favorite namesake.

I still find it touching to go to the veterinarian, with the dogs and our cat, and see the name Johnston come up for each of them – Tinker, Tally, and Frankie Johnston.  Since my family tree starts with my adoption into the Johnston family, my pets, my son, my wife, and my granddaughter are the only living Johnston ornaments on the tree.  Roxie, a schnauzer that we lost to a speeding motorist, was also a member of our exclusive Johnston household, and is buried in our hearts.  All the other Johnston cousins out there have their own tree that includes my adopted parents and grandparents that gave me the privilege of the name.

Long ago, I had the opportunity to name a business, “Hall of Ivy.”  It was a plant shop that grew to five locations with the slogan, “bringing the outdoors in.”  I had a radio jingle prepared, a logo, and hired an advertising agency.  I didn’t have much to do with the actual business, but I did some occasional “Plant Parties.”  This involved taking a truckload of house plants to a private home, and hopefully returning with only few remaining.  It was similar to  a Tupperware party in those days, where the host invited guests and received bonus plants for helping to sell them to their friends and family.

I made a common marketing mistake on the name, “Hall of Ivy.”  It was originally just a hallway of plants in a mini-mall, but “grew” well beyond that.  The business eventually also evolved into selling fresh flowers and arrangements, so the name no longer represented what was sold or it’s size.  I didn’t have that foresight when selecting the original name.  Several big companies have also made similar marketing mistakes.  One of my favorite examples is the insurance giant, “Massachusetts Mutual.”  Their original sales territory was strictly the state boundary of Massachusetts, but when legislation eventually allowed them to expand nationwide, their name would no longer represent their customer base.  “Nationwide Insurance” has a similar challenge in the international marketplace.  In what I consider to be an ingenious marketing move, “Massachusetts Mutual” simply shortened their name to “Mass Mutual,” representing the masses rather than just the state.  It was an easy fix to a short-sighted decision on the original name.

Very few of us grow up to be known by just one name.  Beyoncé, Sting. Adele, Prince, Elvis, Cher, God, Santa, and Madonna are the primary examples, not necessarily in that order.  “Smiley” might have grown to that level if I had not fought it!  Most of us have at least a first and last name, that were initially the decision of a parent.  Some of those parents were also a bit short-sighted when they named their children.  For example, the Baals should not have named their son, Harry.  Also, a name like Candy Kane, was maybe cute for young girl, but what about as an adult woman?  I struggled with finding a name for our son that kids couldn’t “make fun of.”  For example, naming a child who has big ears, “Mickey” – who would do that?  I thought I was safe with the name Adam, but the kids ended up saying Ad-dumb.  Sometimes you just can’t win!

Ask any numerologist “What’s in a name?” and they will give you some additional food for thought.  The baby books will tell you which are the most popular, but many of us are driven to find something unique.  There’s a reason why Adolph is no longer popular.  There’s also a list of the 100 most unfortunate names in human history, if you need help?  Just remember, even a “creative” twist in the spelling of a popular name, just to be different, can lead to years of frustration in communication – miss-spelled e-mails, driver’s license errors, graduation diplomas, business awards, etc.  Poor Meaghan, for example, is plagued with constantly correcting everyone’s spelling.  What’s with that name, anyway!

If you are given the honor of coming up with a name, please put some thought into it.  What’s in a Name? Everything.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Retirement is not without Hassles: Worn and Torn #130

I had some hassles with Google this morning that prevented me from adding any content.  I’ve since switched over to a different provider to allow me access to my site.  In the meantime, I spent some time this afternoon at the Vet with our dog Tinker.  She has a couple of lumps that seem to be interfering with her motion and comfort levels.  A couple hundred dollars later, we’re resting comfortably at home.  Pet. Vet. Debt.  (see post #67:  Schnauzer on Steroids).

I also had lunch with a friend. bought some office supplies, and tried to get some business cards ordered.  It’s only early June and I’ve already overspent my monthly retirement budget.  I’ll have to find some ways to conserve.  Our pets are expensive to keep healthy, but well worth the investment.  They are my steady companions at home, and I sometimes measure my own mortality based on the state of their health.

My wife had several cats and a dog, named Belle, when we first got together.  They would all keep a close eye on me during the courtship process.  Belle would have been 25 years old this year, and Macy the cat, who also eventually approved of me, would have turned 23.  They’re chewing on the Pearly Gates now, watching the progress of our new pet family consisting of Frankie 16, Tinker 12, and Tally 7.  Frankie was our first joint investment just before we got married.  Tinker was adopted as Belle’s companion, and Tally was adopted after we lost Roxie in an accident.  I’ve watched them all grow older with time passing quickly.

All of us feel a little worn and torn.  Tinker has especially been going through a rough time with allergies, ear infections, rashes, back problems, and lumps.  It’s a good thing I’m retired and have all this extra time to spend with the Vet.  Tally always enjoys tagging along to support her ailing sister.  Simple dog math puts Tinker in her 80’s, but “old age ain’t no place for sissies” as my mother used to say, quoting Bette Davis.  It’s hard to watch Tinker grow old, knowing that I’m growing old myself, and that someday I might need the help of a doctor.  I doubt that I will seek the help of a veterinarian, unless my ears start to itch.

 

Worn and Torn

I’m worn and torn,
From wear and tear.
I’ve lived too long,
It now seems unfair.

.

In-shape and fit,
Started out as a hunk.
Now my spirit is dead,
And my muscles all shrunk.

.

For too many years,
I just didn’t care.
After just a few steps,
Now, I’m sucking air.

.

Drinkin’ and Smokin’
More than I should.
Tastin’ and Eatin’
All that I could.

.

All those temptations,
I should have fought.
This Hangover has hung over,
Longer than I thought.

,

I’d sit on my ass,
Smokin’ a doob.
Watching others exercise,
On the boob tube.

.

I’ve been hard on myself,
And that’s made me soft.
At overindulgence,
I often scoffed.

.

Can’t give blood,
Cause I’m on medication.
I’ve set the standards,
Of our overweight nation.

.

I have a warm heart,
And a few good parts,
But my cholesterol,
Is off the charts.

.

Mark Antony’s quote,
“Lend me your ear.”
What’s that you say?
I can’t hear.

.

My smile is crooked,
And a few teeth missing.
And these wrinkled lips,
No longer worth kissing.

.

Do the eyes have it?
Not any more.
And who’d want a nose?
That does nothing but snore.

.

My voice is no louder,
Than most mimes.
And I’ve bitten my tongue,
Too many times.

.

When I die,
I want to share.
I’d donate my organs,
But who would care?

.

Copyright 2017 (revised from 2009)  johnstonwrites.com

 

 

 

Creature Features: Scaredy Cat #76

It was pretty quiet at home today without the dogs.  They are making their monthly visit to the spa (a.k.a. Urban Fauna) for playtime, a bath, and grooming.  Tally, our youngest schnauzer, loves to go! Tinker, on the other hand, just likes to go for a ride in the car, and then reluctantly enters the door.  There were no dogs to follow me around all day, no echoing barks, no stares of hunger, and no walk to Starbucks.  I might have been lonely had I not been to the car wash, the grocery store, the running store, and the fitness center.  There was also no one to share my cookies with!

When I pick them up in a couple of hours, I will take Frankie (old blue eyes), our cat, back to the vet for a quick (hopefully) follow-up visit.  Pet.Vet.Debt.  I will also restock on hypo-allergenic dog food.  Frankie is the senior member of our pet family, with us during the adoptions of both Tinker and Tally.  When each dog joined the family as a young pup, there was obviously an adjustment period, but Frankie is not the Scaredy Cat:

Scaredy Cat

Afraid of big dogs,

When they first meet.

She hides behind me,

Reluctant to greet.

.

Avert her eyes,

Or cover up.

Mostly because,

She’s just a pup.

.

She starts to cower,

Might even bark.

A Cowardly Lion.

A toothless shark.

.

Terrified of Fireworks,

Lightning and Thunder.

Looks for something,

To hide under.

.

Pull on her collar,

She’ll hit the skids.

She’s even cautious,

Of little kids.

.

She dodges balloons,

Skirts a trash bag.

Her ears will sag,

And tail won’t wag.

.

She’s a Fraidy cat,

A shadow makes her jump.

When she’s scared,

She’s a real grump.

.

Hides in the bushes,

Ready to pounce.

The slightest movement.

She’s off with a bounce.

.

Roar of a motorcycle,

She seeks refuge.

The slightest threat,

To her is huge.

.

She’s so scared,

She carries a stick.

In case her fear,

Has a fight to pick.

 

Sleeps in the corner,

With one eye open.

Maybe the boogey man,

Might come in?

 

Like the cartoon’s,

Scaredy Cat.

Worried of dis,

Afraid of dat.

 

She used to be brave,

No one was a stranger.

Now she views life,

As one big danger.

 

Her ears perk up,

She’ll start to growl.

Then she’ll let out,

A high-pitched howl.

 

She’d scamper off,

If she could.

Loud noises,

Are never good.

 

If there’s something,

Out of place.

She’s quick to do,

An about-face

 

She barks at the Roomba,

Protects her bone.

She even flinches,

At the ring of a phone.

 

But when she hears,

A cat’s soft purr.

The table’s turn,

It’s afraid of her.

.

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